Dear Diary
by sleeepyjean
Summary: In the summer of 1967, a young lady came up with the bright idea of mailing herself to Davy Jones, and only her diary will ever know what really happened. (Written for LJ's Monkeefest!)


_June 19__th__, 1967_

_Mail from San Francisco to Los Angeles only takes a few days. Right?_

* * *

Davy Jones wasn't unfamiliar with receiving packages in the mail. Ever since he was a young boy, he'd been quite familiar with the postage system; first as the little cheeky boy with the rosy face from down the road, collecting letters for his dear old Dad who couldn't quite make it down to the post office due to his harrowing work schedule; then as the new kid in New York that was blowing audiences away as the Artful Dodger in _Oliver, _gaining his fair share of female attention both in backstage visitors and in fan mail. Now, twenty-one and all grown up with a life of his own, he was receiving more mail then he ever had before; partly due to the fact that he was now paying for his own expenses and seemed to receive a more outlandish electrical bill each month, but mostly due to his status as one of the most beloved teen idols in the history of, well, teen idolatry.

He was, however, completely unfamiliar with receiving living, breathing packages; packages with contents that hyperventilate and faint when they arrive on your doorstep, leading to an incredibly awkward period of waiting until the contents awaken from her initial shock.

He should have seen it coming, he would say, looking back on the date of the arrival; when he had signed off the UPS sheet notifying he had mail waiting for him, he had raised an eyebrow at the seemingly large package that he didn't remember ordering as the man in the brown uniform so gingerly placed it upon his doorstep.

"It's marked fragile, so be careful, Mr. Jones," the man reiterated once again, pointing to the "fragile" stamps that adorned the box. Davy nodded and checked the necessary boxes on the sheet, sighing a bit as he scribbled his name on the line.

"Any idea what's in there? I haven't delivered anything this big in a while," the delivery man asked, running his fingers along the top of the box again. Davy could have sworn he saw the cardboard moving under him, but he couldn't quite be sure—it had been a long day, arriving at the studio at 6 AM, finally returning home at 7 PM after relentless shooting and no real breaks—his eyes were surely playing tricks on him.

He shrugged and cracked a smile despite his exhaustion. "Can't say I know, but thank you for your concern." Years of interviews, auditions, and mindless chatter had him well versed in small talk and good manners—and the delivery man tipped his hat and nodded in response.

"Well, enjoy, Mr. Jones," he said as he began walking away. But that wasn't the end of it, and Davy knew it would only be seconds before he returned to his doorstep asking for an autograph. Davy counted his steps: one, two, three—

On his fourth step, as expected, he turned back to face Davy, a sheepish grin gracing his face. "I'm sorry, but I have to ask; you see, my daughter, she's such a big fan, and—"

Davy nodded and held up his hand—a kind gesture to stop his apologies—and brandished the pen once again, asking for her name with a sweet little smile.

A few thank yous later and the delivery man was gone, and Davy was left with the strange package on his doorstep.

He took a few steps towards it and scrutinized the cardboard for a trace of where it had come from—there was no return label, and it was only addressed to his house with nothing else but a multitude of fragile stamps. With a furrowed brow, he tugged at the tape that lined the circumference of it, prying open the top flaps. He cursed—and loudly—when he saw a pair of big, brown eyes blinking back at him.

The pair of big, brown eyes belonged to a little, brunette girl—a little, brunette girl who screamed upon seeing Davy's face. Almost instantaneously, the box toppled over and she scurried out, causing him to jump almost two feet back in fear. She was frozen in shock and started an attempt to string together a decent sentence, but before Davy could ask her name, she'd collapsed onto the floor due to hysteria, no doubt—that, or lack of nutrition.

* * *

It was about an hour later and he was in the kitchen, fixing himself a hot cup of tea when he first looked back at her, body lifting only slightly on his couch as she breathed in her seemingly paralyzing sleep. He sighed, scratching his head and furrowing his brow, and walked over to check on her sleeping form. After deliberating for what seemed like ages, pacing back and forth in his kitchen and wondering what he had to do—what he _could_ do—in the wake of an actual human being appearing on his doorstep in a box, he realized he had to take these things with a grain of salt—or sugar, seeing as he had made his tea a bit too black, today. The last thing he needed was a scandal, seeing as he already was having a difficult time hiding his and the others' already habitual abuse of certain illegal substances, so he realized he had to keep quiet. He had to keep his head, he had to—

—and that's when he heard a slight thud, interrupting his thoughts.

His eyes flickered over her figure—_not bad_, he thought to himself, raising his eyebrows—and his eyes stopped as he realized what, exactly, she had dropped in her sleep. A little black diary lay at the floor, her manicured fingernails barely brushing where she had lost her grip, and Davy knew it would probably reflect poorly on him but he couldn't _help_ but be intrigued by the book. Davy waited a minute or two, listening to her light breathing for a few silent moments before he slowly reached for the diary, pages torn and frayed, falling apart at the binding.

He's Davy Jones, he reassures himself as he fans through the pages, stopping on the most recent entries. She won't protest. If anything, she'll kiss the pages he touched.

_June 16, 1967_

_You know, I've never, ever thought about going steady with anybody in my grade. Ever! Sure, they might be cute and all, but all the boys I know are so immature—but that's just it. They're boys, and if I want to be truly happy, I need a man in my life. The last boy who asked me on a date did so by throwing a wad of paper at my head in Algebra, can you believe it? (And when he finally took me out, he didn't offer his jacket when I was cold and he was a rotten kisser). If I'm ever to truly date someone—and I'm talking well past all that necking in the car and at the movies and stuff—he's got to be a gentleman. A wonderful, handsome, chivalrous, gentleman; and yesterday it hit me, diary, it hit me. _

_Yesterday was Monday, which meant the Monkees were on TV, and Dad let me take the car out so I could drive to Julie's and watch it (her mom's so groovy, my parents never let me watch the Monkees because it's on at dinnertime and Mom says they're promoting drugs and sex on her otherwise clean TV—ugh). And there we were, sitting on her floor, watching our gorgeous boys do what they do best, and it hit me like a ton of bricks! I need a man in my life, sure—but not just any man. I need Davy Jones! He's the perfect gentleman—he's kind, talented, sweet, he has an accent, and he looks like a great kisser (from what I can see on TV, anyway)—and yeah, he may be plastered all over my bedroom walls, but who cares, diary? He's my perfect man! And you can't just let something like that slip away! You have to go right in and take it—and that's exactly what I'm doing!_

_Julie and I deliberated for a while—see, she likes Mike, and he's married so she couldn't go after him and take him away from his wife—and we figured out that the only possible way I could ever meet Davy is…well, through the mail! It sounds crazy, diary, but I just had to mail myself to Davy. I mean, Dad would never let me take the car out for more than a day, and I still have the address from last month's FAVE Magazine. Julie and I are going out tomorrow to get a box and figure everything out—but don't worry, diary, I'll keep you updated._

_June 18__th__, 1967_

_The box is a bit more cramped than I would have hoped, but I'm here! I did it! I told Mom and Dad I was going camping with Julie and Michelle and they bought the whole thing! Oh, diary, this is going to be terrific, we're going to fall in love and it's going to be wonderful._

Davy looks up from the diary, shutting it gingerly and exhales, smiling a sort of sad, half-smile; he knows not all that great. He's really not. Sure, he's got an accent and nice teeth—and that's a miracle where he came from—but he's not this perfect gentleman that everyone makes him out to be, he has faults, quirks, problems—

She turns in her sleep, arching her back, a little groan escaping her lips.

—_desires_.

He places the diary back where it was when he found it on the floor, and as he moves to stand back up his eyes meet hers.

_Shit_.

Dumbstruck upon seeing his face so close to his, she drew in a shaky breath; her pink minidress had ruffled in her sleep and Davy could tell she was trembling. She opened her mouth to speak, and he silenced her immediately, putting a finger to her lips.

"Don't say anything," he began. "I don't want to know where you came from, and I don't want to know your name."

Her eyes flickered to his finger, which rested ever so lightly on her slightly parted lips.

_You've got her in the palm of your hands, David. What's your next move?_

"The the stunt you pulled was very, very dangerous," he began, moving his hand from her face yet keeping his gaze, moving onto the couch next to her as she sat up. He watched her chew on her lip nervously, wringing her hands together. He noticed her fingernails were painted white.

"You could've died."

Their noses were inches apart.

She nodded, unable to make a sound, much less tear her gaze away from his face; the face that plastered her bedroom walls and graced her vision on the television every Monday evening.

Davy smirked, shaking his head. "Should've shipped yourself to the Beatles, you would've gotten much better publicity, y'know."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, eyes wide with fear and thick, black liner, and their faces remained inches away. Then there was a bit of silence, nothing but the faint ticking of the second hand of a clock resonating in the room. She was too terrified to breathe.

"I know what you want."

He finally spoke.

She opened her mouth as if she wanted to speak, but stopped herself before she could say anything.

He tried again. "Be honest."

Her cheeks turned to a deep pink and she averted her eyes from him for the very first time in what seemed like hours. She couldn't speak.

Davy shook his head and chuckled, chewing on the chain of his necklace and running the pendant along the span of it. "Never mind that. I already know." His eyes flickered to the diary.

Realizing what Davy meant, she audibly drew in a breath, eyes darting from one spot on the ground to the next. Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink than before.

"Oh, that silly little thing, I—"

He smirked, coyly biting his lip. She could feel his breath on her and it made her skin jump.

"I don't want you to say a thing about this to anyone. You leave my house straight away, and you won't go to the press or write to any teen magazines. You won't write, call, or…or mail yourself here ever again. Got it?"

She nodded, swallowing almost audibly.

"Good. Because I'm not going to repeat myself again."

And that's when he kissed her.

* * *

_June 23__rd__, 1967_

_It's been quite a few days since I've written, diary, and I'm really sorry about it all but these past few days have just been something else. I've been keeping this secret; and it's a pretty big secret, but I know you won't judge me for it. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone, but it won't hurt if I tell my diary, right? Because it's killing me, diary, it really is; I've had to keep it from Julie and Michelle and all the girls at school and especially Mom and Dad, and I've just got to tell someone!_

_I'm not sure where to start, exactly, but let me just tell you, the magazines sure were right about that older man thing. I've never felt so incredible in all of my sixteen years; I went all the way, diary. It was all so clear, yet such a blur at the same time; one thing lead to another and at first Davy and I were just kissing but then, oh then my dress was on the floor and his hands trailed lower and lower and—I feel so dirty writing it but I can't stop! It's all I've been thinking about since I got home and I can almost feel his gorgeous lips on mine as I write! It just gives me butterflies and makes my skin feel hot, I can't even describe the rush I get. _

_He told me not to call or write or say anything about it, and I understand why. But when I went to Julie's house like I do every Monday, my knees got weak when I saw his face on her TV. I think my heart stopped for a few good seconds!_

_Anyway, I think the phone's ringing for me. Julie said she'd call. But I still don't think I'll tell her._

_It'll be our little secret, diary. _

_Until next time._


End file.
